


I'm A Wild Child, Or So They Tell Me

by DarthAbby



Series: The Amazing Adventures of Spider-Em and Abbypool [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Mercenaries, Origin Story, Spidersona, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 04:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18843472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthAbby/pseuds/DarthAbby
Summary: The creation of Deadpool is bloody. The creation of Abby is only slightly less so.(or: how a girl with more questions than answers becomes a mercenary and gains a couple of names, and a couple of friends, along the way)





	I'm A Wild Child, Or So They Tell Me

**Author's Note:**

> WOW I pounded this out in record time! I'm very proud of how this ended up, I think this is one of the best things I've written in a while, so I hope you enjoy!

She wakes up slowly, painfully, like every atom of her person is against the entire concept of waking up. Her eyes stay shut as she takes stock of her existence.

Other than  _ pain, _ the main thing she feels is  _ cold, _ followed closely by  _ wet. _ It's not a pleasant combination. She’s shivering, and that hurts, too.

Slowly, her eyes leverage open, and at first she doesn't understand what she sees.

She's moving forwards, towards a grey expanse that has no beginning or end, flying past small white dots that swirl around and past her. It's almost dizzying, and certainly disorienting. She doesn't feel like she's moving.

After a few moments of struggling to understand, it clicks into place.

Snow. It's snowing. She's on her back, staring up at the sky, and it's snowing.

What had  _ happened? _

She thinks back, trying to remember how she got here, and runs across a blank space that aches and burns.

It makes her feel sick. She can't remember what happened. Something awful, clearly, but  _ what, _ exactly?

She doesn't feel as cold anymore. Just tired.

Her eyes drift back shut, her breathing slows, and her heart falters until it stops.

* * *

She wakes again, and this time, she knows that she's travelling. The world is dark, but she can feel the gentle movement of a vehicle.

It's considerably warmer, though her clothes also feel much  _ wetter, _ which, ugh.

She tries to move her arm, but feels resistance when she does.  _ The fuck? _ The same happens with her other arm, and both legs. She wiggles angrily, trying to determine what is holding her down, and -

She blinks in the sudden light, seeing an aghast face above hers.

“Oh my  _ god, _ you're  _ alive?!” _

“Think so,” she grunts. “Who're you?”

The person looks somewhere above her head. “Doc! She's alive!”

There's a muffled reply. “Who's alive?”

“The Jane Doe! She just woke up!”

“She  _ what?!” _

There's a lurch as the vehicle comes to a sudden stop, sounds of doors opening and slamming, and a second face appears.

“Miss?”

“Hi,” she croaks. “Can I have some water?”

The second person, Doc, gapes at her for a moment before looking at the first. “Well? Get her some water! I'll unhook her.”

The first person scrambles away as Doc busies himself with unclipping the straps that had held her to the gurney. She sits up as soon as she is able, gratefully accepting the water bottle that's handed to her and draining half of it in one go.

“Uh, if you don't mind me asking, weren't you dead?”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“No maybes about it,” Doc says, sitting back after releasing her legs. “You were about frozen solid when we got there. Dead for hours.”

She just shrugs again. “Yeah, it happens.”

“Who  _ are _ you?” the first person finally asks.

She opens her mouth to answer and stops. The only name coming to mind is one she can't use.

“I… I'm not sure. I woke up out there, apparently died, and then you guys found me.”

Doc shakes his head. “A hunter found you, called the sheriff’s office about a dead girl in the woods, and we were sent out to retrieve you.” He gives her a concerned look. “Miss… Doe, what happened out there?”

She finishes the rest of the water, looking down at the black body bag that she is still half-encased by. “I’d like to find out, too, Doc.”

* * *

_ The following is a transcript of a recorded conversation with Doctor William Harlow, medical examiner for Boundary County, Idaho, with an Agency Official, dated September 2nd, 2017. _

**AO:** Doctor, can you tell me about the events of November 14th, 2015?

**WH:** Yes, of course. Ah, my assistant and I were called out to a wooded area between -

**AO:** Assistant?

**WH:** Oh, Alex Ingram. I think she works in Boise now. I’m terrible about keeping in touch with people.

**AO:** When did she leave your staff?

**WH:** Ah… about a year ago, now. Got a better offer, I told her to take it. It’s quiet up here generally, I can handle the workload on my own.

**AO:** I see… so, you and Ingram were called out to a wooded area?

**WH:** Yes, between Mission Creek and Harvey Mountain, a few miles off of the 272. It was, oh, four in the morning? A hunter called it in, up early for deer. Dead body, a teenage girl frozen to death in a clearing. I woke up Alex and we headed out in the truck. Found the body, checked for signs of life and found none. She was frozen solid, couldn’t even get my thermometer in her. Not that I needed to - she’d obviously been dead for a few hours, at least, possibly since the night before. We bagged her and strapped her onto the gurney and loaded her in the back. Alex went back to sit with her, start filling out some prelim paperwork, and I got in the driver’s seat to head back to Bonners Ferry.

**AO:** And it was en-route that the body reanimated?

**WH:** That’s one way of putting it. We’d only been going about forty minutes when Alex started shouting about her being alive. I stopped the truck, went back to see for myself, and the dead girl asked me for some water.

**AO:** What did the girl tell you?

**WH:** Well… not much. She didn’t seem very surprised that she had been dead just a little bit ago, I’ll tell you that. Didn’t have a name, didn’t have a clue as to how she ended up out in the snow, nothing. Just asked us for food and water and some dry clothes.

**AO:** Did you provide all that?

**WH:** Yeah, poor thing was soaked. Not that we had anything in the truck, but Alex gave her some spare clothes when we got back. But water, granola bars, we had those. The girl  _ did _ ask us to not tell anyone that she was alive when we got back, though. Said she didn’t know why she was left for dead out there and wasn’t going to find out the hard way, whatever that meant.

**AO:** And you agreed to these demands.

**WH:** What else could I do? She got scared at one point when another car went by, bent the edge of the gurney because she was holding onto it when she jumped. Those things aren’t exactly solid steel, but it still takes a lot of force to damage ‘em, you know? I didn’t want to find out what she could do to a human with that sort of strength.

**AO:** And what happened afterwards, when you returned to Bonners Ferry?

**WH:** We put her in fresh clothes, told her to stay put while we went out to get some hot food, and when we came back she had just… vanished. Like she was never there. Only thing she left behind was the weird jumpsuit she had been wearing when we found her. Threw that out, it was trashed.

**AO:** I see… anything else?

**WH:** No, ‘fraid not. We reported that there had been no body when we arrived at the site, Alex shredded the little bit of paperwork she had filled out, and we continued on. Haven’t spoken of what happened that morning until now. How did you find me, anyways?

**AO:** I’m afraid that’s classified, Doctor.

**WH:** Classified? Like, CIA? FBI? NSA? That sort of classified?

**AO:** Something like that.

_ Recording ends. Doctor Harlow is suggested for immediate transfer and termination. _

_ A follow-up interview with Doctor Alexandra Ingram is scheduled for as soon as she is located. _

* * *

Two years after waking up in the snow or northern Idaho, and she’d made a name for herself.

Deadpool. Left for dead in a pool of her own blood. And something… called her to the name. She can’t explain it. But when she needed a name, something to hide behind,  _ Deadpool _ had appeared as a stray thought that refused to leave.

It’s odd, but then, she’s pretty odd, too.

She’d picked up a lot of ‘normal’ names in the past two years, too, but those were to use and discard. Deadpool stuck. Deadpool was more than a name - it was a callsign. A warning. A promise.

If you hired Deadpool, the job would be carried out perfectly, to the letter. If you were the reason for Deadpool being hired… well, you wouldn’t live to hire her yourself in retaliation.

She didn’t remember learning the skills she now used, but was also past caring about the  _ hows, _ preferring to focus on the  _ whys. _ First and foremost being  _ why _ couldn’t she remember those three years between running away from her own murder scene in Arizona and waking up in Idaho. Why had her abilities been enhanced - she was stronger, faster, and her healing ability was now powerful enough to scare her at times.

In the early days of Deadpool, before she had gotten full control over herself, she’d been killed on the job. Shot point-blank through the heart.

Everyone was surprised when she woke up halfway through the disposal of her own body, no one more so than Deadpool herself.

That job had ended up being especially messy, but she had finished it, delivering the head of the opposing drug lord to her employer, leaving smears of bloody fingerprints all over the cash she got in return.

She’d learned quickly how to wash money, so it didn’t really matter.

The image of Deadpool quickly gained a particular reputation. The Merc with a Mouth. The hired gun who talks to voices, who would shoot you as soon as look at you. It’s rumored that she’s terribly scarred under that mask, that her suit was once blue and has been dyed purple from all the blood that’s soaked into it, that she’s completely immortal.

Even Deadpool doesn’t know if that one is true or not. She’s been killed more times than she cares to count, has always gotten back up again, but she doesn’t know the limit of her abilities. She doesn’t know if something out there might be able to kill her for good one day.

She’s tempted to seek it out. If only just to know that it’s an option.

Regardless, she doesn’t get a chance to look, because she takes job after job, keeping her mind and her hands busy, learning new ways to hurt people from the ways they try to hurt her.

She refuses to kill children, but anyone else is fair game.

_ Right? _

* * *

 

The only name she was given was  _ Weasel, _ which hardly inspires confidence on any level.

She was supposed to use him for information - he knows something that her employer would also like to know. All she had been told was that he was a weapons dealer and was the contact man for about half of the mercs in the country. His bar is in an old boarding school in Chicago and his clientele is made up of the assholes she makes good money taking down.

Deadpool entered in street clothes. Just because she’s known for being loud and dramatic doesn’t mean she has to be that way all the time. She wanted to observe the rodent first, before engaging with him.

And when she sat at the end of the bar, well away from the other patrons, he recognized her first. Somehow.

Two hands slap down on the bar in front of her, making her look up from her phone, eyes widening.

“What the  _ fuck _ are  _ you _ doing  _ here?” _

_ “...Jack?!” _

Weasel - Jack - motions for her to keep it down as he leans in to hiss at her. “You have a  _ lot _ of fucking explaining to do.” He turns and whistles, catching the attention of a young guy bussing empty bottles. “Rob! You’re on bar duty!”

The kid, Rob, looks ecstatic. As Jack ushers her away, towards a door that must lead to a back office, there are some catcalls and shouts about cradle-robbing.

She wrinkles her nose.  _ Gross. _

Once the door is closed and locked, and the single window has also been locked and the blinds drawn even more tightly shut, he rounds on her

“Where the hell have you  _ been?” _

“Hi, Jack.”

He throws up his hands incredulously. “You’ve been missing for  _ five years _ \- I thought you were fucking  _ dead,  _ what the hell happened?”

She shrugs, picking unconsciously at the hem of her jacket sleeve. “Uh, well… have you heard of Deadpool?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Of course I have, this is where I  _ work. _ Why? Did she kidnap you?”

“What? No, dumbass,  _ I’m _ Deadpool.”

His mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. He drops into the chair behind the desk and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. When his hands fall away, he looks confused and pained.

“You’re Deadpool.”

“Yeah.”

_ “You. _ You’re Deadpool.”

“Me, yeah.”

“...you’re  _ Deadpool?!” _

She sighs and sits across from him.  _ “Yes, _ idiot. I’m Deadpool.”

He gapes at her. “But you’re  _ seventeen _ \- I used to fucking  _ babysit _ you.”

“Eighteen.”

“Huh?”

“My birthday was last month, remember?”

“No!” he explodes, sending a few papers flying. “No, I don’t  _ fucking _ remember because I haven’t celebrated your birthday in five  _ fucking _ years because you vanished the night before my high school  _ fucking _ graduation! We all thought you had been  _ murdered, _ Jesus!”

She shrugs, looking away. “I… was?”

“Excuse me?”

“I  _ was _ murdered. But then I got better?”

He stares at her, eyes like dinner plates. “You got better.”

“Yeah, uh… have you heard the rumors that Deadpool is immortal?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“It’s true, far as I can tell,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m a mutant, and my ability is healing. No matter what happens, I just keep getting up.”

He looks distraught when she glances up, and starts to say her old name.

“No,” she says quickly. “I’m not - I don’t use that name anymore.”

Jack grimaces, but nods. “What name  _ do _ you have now, then? Besides Deadpool. I’m not fucking calling you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because my brain is refusing to reconcile everything I’ve heard about Deadpool with my little cousin who barfed chocolate cake all over me at her third birthday party.”

She rolls her eyes, but concedes the point. “Fine. But I don’t have another name. Not one that’s stuck, anyways.” He opens his mouth again and she glares at him.  _ “No. _ For all intents and purposes, she  _ did _ die the night before your graduation.” She wasn’t going back to that life, that name. Not if she had any say in it.

“Alright, chill,” he grumbles, holding up his hands placatingly. “We’ll worry about it later, I guess. You still haven’t told me why you’re here, at my bar.”

“On a job.”

He sighs, not looking particularly surprised. “Who’re you after?”

“Well… you, actually.”

“Please don’t kill me.”

“Nah, my employer just wants information,” she shrugs. “You’re apparently very useful in the community. Besides,” she admits, “I don’t think I would be able to kill you now. I didn’t know that Weasel was, well,  _ you.” _

“Yeah, you’re not the only one with a secret identity now,” he sighs. “If I tell you what you want to know, will you -”

“I’ll leave you alone, yeah.”

“What? No.” He shakes his head. “If I tell you what you want to know, will you give me your phone number? Your  _ real _ phone, not a burner, I know how mercenaries work.”

She blinks. “I - what? Why?”

He sighs again and pushes a hand through his hair. “Look, we were always okay, right? At least, I thought so.”

They  _ had _ been okay - out of the entire fucked up family, Jack had been the only person she ever really felt comfortable around. Even if he was almost six years her senior, and therefore should have never wanted anything to do with his baby cousin, they had been each other’s pillars of relative sanity during family get-togethers.

Jack was the one who had tutored her in math and taught her how to run away from a fight, but in a smart way.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “We were always okay.”

“Good. I cut contact with the rest of the family about two years ago, when I bought this place,” he says, gesturing to encompass all of Sister Margaret’s. “The only thing I regretted about that was that, on the off chance you  _ did _ turn up again, I was sure I would never know about it because you’d be back with all of them. But instead you walked in  _ here. _ I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “this lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to having many people watching your back. Maybe we can watch each other’s.”

“You… why?” she asks, feeling lost. “You know who I am - you must’ve heard about what I’ve done. I’m - I don’t regret anything, but I know it’s messed up stuff. I’m dangerous, unstable, I -”

“You’re the only fucking person I’m willing to admit any sort of blood relation to,” he cuts in swiftly. “You think I haven’t been in my own share of sticky situations?”

As if to prove his point, a gun went off in the bar area, following by a lot of shouting and what sounded like someone getting tackled. Jack didn’t even flinch.

“Like 70% of my business is just knowing everyone  _ else’s _ business,” he explains. “I keep an ear out for anyone who might be gunning after you, and can probably get you some jobs. All I want in return is a promise that you won’t disappear on me again. And some protection, of course, as needed.”

She laughs a little, nodding. “Yeah, okay, I can do that.”

“Good,” he says, sitting back in the chair. “You got a place to stay here?”

“Uh…” She had been planning on just not sleeping until the job was done and then booking a hotel room for a couple days. It wasn’t the best system, but it worked for her.

He snorts as he stands up, heading for the door. “You can crash on my couch. We close in about four hours, you can wait at the bar until then. I’ll even let you have a beer.”

“Beer is  _ gross _ -”

“You get beer, or you get tap water.”

She got beer.

And as she nursed it through the next few hours, she couldn’t help but think that it  _ was _ pretty nice, knowing that there was a friendly face close by.

* * *

They develop something of a system. Between jobs, Deadpool would return to Chicago and Sister Margaret’s - or the Hellhouse, as the patrons refer to it. Weasel would wave her up to his apartment when she slunk through the door at some awful hour, where she could shower and make a sandwich and pass out on the couch for a few hours. When she woke up, it would be to a stack of paper on the coffee table - jobs to go through, offers that Jack had gathered for her since her last visit.

He tried to call her by her old name. She would snap back with his every time, not that it had even a quarter of the same sting.

Names were dangerous in their line of work, even in a relatively safe place like his apartment.

“Okay,” he said one afternoon, three months into the arrangement. “Fine, whatever,  _ that name _ is off the table. But you gotta give me  _ something _ to work with here! I can call you Deadpool when I’m job-hunting for you - which, by the way,  _ you’re welcome _ \- but I refuse to call you that to your face.”

“I thank you every time I get back,” she grumbled back, face buried in a pillow. Getting shot execution-style hurt like a motherfucker, and the headache lasted for  _ days _ afterwards. “Don’t get pissy with me.”

He turned on the blender in retaliation, giving her a stony look when she popped off the couch with a shriek. He allowed her to turn the blender off, but didn’t drop the look.

“Fine,  _ fine, _ if I  _ let you _ come up with a decent name for me, will you let me go back to sleep?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. She groaned and fell back onto the couch.

Of the list he had come up with (suspiciously fast, was he just waiting to whip it out? Ugh, phrasing,  _ phrasing, _ ugh), there was only one name that she was willing to answer to.

“Abby?” he questioned, finding the list hung up on the fridge the next day, everything scribbled out except ‘Abby,’ which had been circled. “Really?”

“You’re the one that put it on the list,” she said sternly, waving around a butter knife covered in peanut butter. “What’s wrong with Abby?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, just… thought you wouldn’t like it, since it’s kind of close to -” he stopped short at her glare and backpedaled. “Abby is great! Great name! Good choice!”

Abby turned back to her toast with a small smile. “Damn right.”

* * *

So. When she’s in Chicago, sleeping and healing on her cousin’s couch, eating his food and deciding who deserves to be killed next, she is Abby. Eventually, she picks up Grace as a last name (Jack laughs heartily at that one, and she can’t really blame him). It really  _ does _ help to have a semi-stable identity to fall back on sometimes.

When she is in not-Chicago, out ridding the world of some bad people, usually at the behest of other bad people, and making pretty good bank out of it, she is Deadpool. Weasel hooks her up with some better guns, and doesn’t complain too much when she snags a pair of katanas from his stockroom without permission. Even he has to admit that it really does complete the look she has going on.

She continues through the world, wreaking havoc and leaving a trail of bodies as she goes. Occasionally, she hears about some very mysterious people who are looking for her and leaving some bloody trails of their own as they do.

Whatever. As long as they don’t interfere with the good thing she’s got going on, she’s not concerned about it.

* * *

“Hey, Abby! Check this out!”

The busboy and occasional bartender, Rob, latched onto her with surprising quickness. Even though it took four months for him to get a name out of her, he was determined to make friends. Weird disposition for someone who works at what is, essentially, a hitman job center, but he’s pretty entertaining.

Currently, he’s also waving his phone above his head.

“Calm down, Bobby,” she snorts, strolling over.

He’s such a fucking puppy that he doesn’t even mind being called the wrong nickname. “Look!”

There’s a video paused on the phone. She hits play.

A figure in a dark reddish-purple suit drops into view, sweeping the legs out from under a guy who was apparently trying to break into an ATM. The guy goes down hard, the hero secures him with some sort of white rope, and then uses more of the stuff to swing away.

“Isn’t that cool?” Rob says enthusiastically. “She’s going by Spider-Woman. Or, at least, that’s what Twitter is calling her. Apparently she’s been hanging around New York for like six or seven months now, but this is the first decent video anyone’s been able to get.”

Abby hums noncommittally. “Looks like a dork in spandex to me.”

“She’s  _ amazing,” _ he says, undaunted. “She’s got like, actual powers and shit!" Okay,  _ouch._ She's got powers, too. Technically. Not that Rob knows that - as far as he knows, she's just some grumpy teenage girl who knows Weasel. Half of the patrons think that they're fucking. No one knows they're related, and no one knows she's Deadpool, which is for the best. "And those webs are so cool, like did you see the way she caught that guy?”

Rob is going off on an excited rant, which means that she can just nod along for the next several minutes, at least.

She’s heard mentions here and there about Spider-Woman over the past few months, but hadn’t seen the webswinger with her own eyes. Her jobs didn’t send her to New York City very often. Pretty much never, actually. Apparently the criminal scene there was pretty self-sustaining and they didn’t need any out-of-towner mercs to do their dirty work for them.

Which is fine. She’s busy enough without having to go to the Big Apple anyways.

Spider-Woman seems pretty interesting, though. Maybe she should look into dropping by the city next time she was in the area, try and look up the hero.

She’s always wanted to see the MoMA, anyways.

* * *

Two months later, she’s heading back to Chicago with a lifetime ban from the museum and a promise to Spidey that she’ll never return to New York.

Eh, she’s never been one to keep promises that don’t involve monetary rewards, though.

* * *

“Are you  _ serious?” _ Jack groans when she hops over the back of the couch to land in his lap, declaring that she’s in love. “If it’s Rob, I don’t wanna hear about it. And he won’t get a raise, no matter how good he is in bed.”

_ “No, _ don’t be crass,” she scoffs. “I finished the job in Jersey and went on up to New York, and -”

“- and met Spider-Woman and took her on a date,” he says flatly. “I know. You guys caused something of a community-wide breakdown, you know?”

“It wasn’t a  _ date,” _ she rolls her eyes. “We just went to the museum and then got kicked out because the guards were paranoid little shitstains.”

“But you’re in love?”

“Yeah!” she grins up at him. “Spidey is amazing. She blinded me with webbing and made me promise to never go back to New York.”

Jack sighs and shoves her off of his lap and onto the floor. “When - not if, I know you better than that -  _ when _ you go back, try not to get arrested, because I will  _ not _ be coming to bail you out.”

She thinks about this and nods. “That’s fair.” She stretches and decides to stay on the floor. “So, whatcha got for me this time?”

“Well, you got another request from one of the cartels - the guy said to tell you that, uh,  _ Rico _ was requesting you specifically?”

She nods. “Yeah, he’s a whiny bitch. Continue.”

“Couple of bruised egos that want blood, a lady who wants her husband offed, a local gang kid dropped by wanting to seem impressive by hiring you for a fucking drive-by,” he snorts. “I steered him towards Ted, who was fucking thrilled.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I bet. What about the general job board?”

He shrugs. “Nothing too interesting. Local girl wants someone to intimidate her stalker into leaving her alone, some low-level hits, the usual.”

“Hm. I’ll take the stalker and the bloodthirsty wife.”

“Both of ‘em?”

“Yeah, stalker shouldn’t take more than a few hours. Easy-peasy.”

“It’s not much money.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“No,” he observes with a raised eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep on the floor.”

“And if I am?”

He sighs and stands up, kicking at her leg. “Move yourself to the couch so that I don’t have to hear you complain in the morning about how uncomfortable the floor is.”

“Thaaaaaanks, Jack,” she says, shooting him a grin as she quickly hops up and onto the couch.

“Whatever, man. I’ll put you on the roster.”

* * *

Two weeks later, she’s halfway through a job when a text arrives on her current burner.

**FROM: UNKNOWN  
** _ don’t come back home. lie low. im doing the same. stay away until i say its safe. J _

Something cold and heavy settles in her stomach. Something has Jack, has  _ Weasel _ spooked. That wasn’t easy to do.

He has  _ never _ told her to not return to Chicago before. The Hellhouse is dangerous on its best day, full of all sorts of bloodied killers. He’s never felt the need to go into hiding before, either.

**TO: UNKNOWN  
** _ i can help, whats going on _

**FROM: UNKNOWN  
** _ NO.  _

The response is like a slap in the face, and she physically recoils. She’s not even able to respond before another text comes in.

**FROM: UNKNOWN  
** _ bad shit going down. super super bad. i’ve got people on it. keep your head down and STAY AWAY _

**TO: UNKNOWN  
** _ dude!!!!!! _

**Message not sent. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.**

She swallows her fear, the sudden panic rising in her throat, and calls her employer to tell him that she’s not finishing the job and he won’t have to pay her. She hangs up before he can shout at her, snapping the cheap burner before tossing it in a bush and walking away.

_ God, _ what was she supposed to do now?

* * *

She ends up back in New York, if only because that’s the only place she can think of that isn’t Chicago right now.

Deadpool doesn’t make much of a stir in the city. Abby enrolls in a local college, just looking for something to spend her days on that isn’t figuring out what happened to Weasel and hurting whoever is keeping her away from the one person in the world she actually  _ likes _ seeing on a semi-regular basis, keeping her away from the closest thing to a home she’s had in years.

But he didn’t want her involved. He wanted her safe.

If it was something he thought could threaten  _ Deadpool, _ it really was super bad shit. She’s willing to bide her time, but she’s not sure how long that patience will last.

She wants  _ answers. _

But she stays her hand, at least until it becomes a little too much.

If she’s gonna be staying in New York, she might as well do what she does best, right? And  _ that’s _ taking down creeps, goons, and general bad guys.

So Deadpool takes to the streets of New York City, armed with her katanas and the itchy need to use them in a violent manner sooner rather than later.

Hopefully Spidey won’t be too mad. She takes down muggers and petty thieves too, right? So it won’t be an issue?

_ Well, _ Deadpool muses as she relieves a would-be-rapist of his right arm,  _ I don’t think Spider-Woman dismembers people. _

_ But we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. _


End file.
